


No Exit Orion

by ares (so_uh_yeah)



Category: Realicide - Grej (Web Series), The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, But he is being held against his will, Dubious Morality, Injury, Injury Recovery, Moralism isnt dead yay, Not Canon Compliant, Other, im not sure if this counts as angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29974707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_uh_yeah/pseuds/ares
Summary: In which Moralist is injured and Communalism helps him recover and nothing bad ever happens.
Relationships: Communalism/Moralism, Cult Communalism/Moralism
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	No Exit Orion

Moralist woke up in a cold sweat. His head felt like it was underwater, and the ceiling he stared up at contorted into unnatural shapes. He followed its jagged turns and edges as he took in a shallow breath. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His hand found its place around his temple and he used the other to push himself up, however, this proved to be more difficult than he thought. He was rewarded for this act with a sharp pain in his chest. He didn’t remember having pains like that. He didn’t remember the ceiling that hung over him even when it started to smooth itself back into a normal shape. He couldn’t remember what happened yesterday either. Every attempt he made to untangle the fuzzy mess of memories was met with the feeling that there was supposed to be a ‘yesterday,’ but he might as well have stopped existing when it started. And then, the door opened.

“Communalism?” He managed to get out when the anti-realist came into his line of sight.

Their eyes widened and a weak smile crept along their face. “You’re awake! You’ve been out for a while. We were starting to get worried.” Their voice trailed off. There was a shakiness to it that Moralist didn’t remember, and there was a sparkle in their eyes that seemed to be missing.  _ Did they always look so tired?  _

“Oh, I have?” Moralist cleared his throat, but that proved to be harder than he expected. What should have been a curt “Ahem” became a coughing fit and blood? in his hand. 

Communalism’s face sank. “You’re not in a lot of pain are you? We’re really glad that you’re even alive after what  _ he  _ did to you.” There was a sharpness in their voice that Moralist had never noticed.

He lied back and searched through his memory for who “ _ he”  _ was and what “ _ he”  _ did to him. “Yeah, me too.”

Communalism smiled a little, having interpreted his statement as a joke. 

Moralist smiled back. “Um, Communalism, could you tell me where I am? I can’t seem to remember.”

“Oh! You’re in our commune.” Communalism walked over to a window and drew open the curtains, letting a pale light fill the room. “We couldn’t let you go back to the Realists, silly.” Communalism helped him sit up and Moralist was finally able to see the full extent of his mysterious injury, his shirt was unbuttoned and gauze had been so tightly wrapped around him as if the person who did it was afraid he would split in half. He cringed. Communalism’s eyes softened. “At least you’ll be safe here. It makes you feel kind of stupid, doesn’t it? The whole Realicide thing, we mean.”

Moralist nodded, tracing his fingers over the bandages, lingering over the spot where they were slightly discolored. 

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine, I think. Thank you, Communalism.”

They smiled and left the room. 

Some part of Moralist was glad to see them. There was something in him that found their presence comforting, like a warm hug or holding their… hands. Yes, that was the last thing he did, right? There was the feeling of pride, in them, of accomplishment. Progress had been made, so why? 

_ Why did they look so miserable? _

Moralist ran his fingers through his tangled hair as he carefully got out of bed. He swayed a bit. He studied himself and found that he was wearing pajama pants that were too big for him. He took an uneasy step forward and winced at the pain that ripped through his chest. He eventually made his way to the door he had watched Communalism walk through; giving a last glance at the room, he noted its dullness, the way the sunlight entered it, and the way it still kept its desaturated, blue glow. 

He slipped through the door and passed through a living area. His hand was reaching for the front door when it opened in front of him, causing him to haphazardly take a step back.

“Moralist!” Communalism called out behind the paper bags he cradled in his arms. They hurried to set them in the kitchen and were soon back at his side. “Are you okay? We didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

“Do you want us to help you back to our room?” 

Moralist’s brows furrowed at the question. His memory was still foggy but he could make out fragments of a lecture on personal property. He decided not to ask about it and gave a curt nod instead. 

“Gosh, we’re sorry,” they said, supporting the realist with one of their arms, “we just left to get groceries. This place doesn’t get used very often, then again, there hasn’t been an injury as bad as yours in a while.”

“Oh, believe me. I know it’s not your fault.” Moralist struggled to smile.

Communalism smiled back. 

**_____________**

The following days passed slowly and quietly. 

Communalism woke them up around the same time everyday, they seemed to beam whenever his eyes met theirs. They made sure he ate well and that his bandages were clean, and that he was comfortable and content. He spent most of his time in bed, having opened the stitches that were keeping his chest together the last time. 

Soon, he felt better, he was still weaker than normal, but he could walk around without doubling over. His feet sank into the shaggy carpet and he took notice of the second door in the room. He turned the knob and stepped out into a greenhouse. “Oh, Communalism, you’re here?”

They turned away from the plant they had been focusing on. “Mhm. Are you sure you should be out of bed right now, Moralist?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me so much. I feel a lot better now.” Moralist walked past them and towards the other side of the greenhouse. His hand made contact with a small silver doorknob before he heard a quick, 

“Wait!”

“What is it?” He asked.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“But why?” They sounded almost frantic. “You’re hurt, you were stabbed, Moralist.”

“I know, but I’ve healed. I’m fine now. I feel fine. I want to go home now.”

Communalism hesitated closer to him as if he was made of glass. “It’s not safe for you out there.”

“What? Communalism, I’ll be fine—”

“No, you won’t.” They cut him off and closed him off from the door. 

“What?” He looked at them incredulously.

“There are  _ outsiders _ , Moralist. B-but not here.”

“Outsiders?”

“Yes, surely you of all people would understand.  _ They  _ are impure,  _ they  _ are evil, tainted by greed and personal property. They’re not like we are, Moralist.  _ They  _ are the pinnacle of immorality.” 

“What? You’re joking.”

“What?”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“When the Holy One comes, we will be saved, and ‘we’ includes you. We are blessed. We are pure.” Communalism clasped his hands in theirs. They seemed to loom over him.

“No. No no no no no, fuck.” Moralist backed away from them. “This is not moral, what the fuck?” 

Communalism’s eyes widened in response. “What? But we remember what you told us—”

“I didn’t tell you to do this. I never told you to form a cult! When did I tell you that personal property was immoral? When did I tell you that it was moral for you to pick and choose who’s impure?”

“Oh, we’re not choosing anything.”

Moralist shook his head. “That’s,” his breathing was ragged. “That’s not the point. You don’t understand morality at all because if you did, you all would have let us leave by now.”

“Where would you go?” Their voice was low.

“Huh?” Moralist asked, caught off guard.

“Where would you go? Everyone thinks you’re dead. The Anti-Realists think you’re dead and the Realists, well, they’ve already moved on without you, Moralist.” A small smile crept into their face.

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t need morality on their team. We mean, they replaced you with the Post Leftist.”

“N-no,” he took a deep breath, but it didn’t get rid of the burning in the back of his throat. “You’re lying.”

“We wouldn’t lie to you. We didn’t want to tell you like this, but you really do have to know. We’re sorry.” 

Tears were already rolling down Moralist’s face before he could stop them, and before they knew it, they had sunk into Communalism’s embrace. 

The worst part wasn’t that the Realists had moved on without him, it wasn’t that Post-Left was on their side now. 

It was that Communalism was right.

And now he’s stuck. 

**_____________**

The following days pass quietly. There’s rain softly tapping on the windows. 

Communalism doesn’t visit him as often. 

Most of Moralist’s time is spent in the greenhouse anyway. At first, he was angry. He pounded on the windows, but they never broke, banged against the door, but it never moved. One time he wrecked it until the floors were caked in soil and terracotta, but Communalism looked at him with pity in their eyes as if he was a child that didn’t know any better. The plants were repotted, and some were replaced, and then everything was fine again. 

That’s when he stopped.

Every exit was locked. What would he do anyway? 

He let days pass in the greenhouse. Hell, he probably let weeks pass. He let the sun and moon pass over the roof without a second thought. When the rain slid down its glass panes, he paid no attention to it, and when autumn came to blow leaves across it, he let them leave spots of colored light and allowed them to cast an orange glow across his face. He let Communalism sit next to them because they looked happy. They weren’t really Communalism, he kept that in mind. They weren’t the same ideology he had met before. 

When snow dusted the roof of the greenhouse, he snapped out of it. He breathed the air into his lungs and it didn’t burn anymore. And when Communalism was gone, he slipped a kitchen knife into his pocket and waited for their return. 

He felt ecstatic, like there was something in him that he had lost months ago. His heart pounded in his chest and he bounced his leg impatiently. An hour may have passed, or two, or three, but they felt like minutes, and when the door opened, he was smiling. 

Communalism forced a smile, but they looked off. They looked exhausted. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, suppressing the gleeful expression that threatened to resurface.

“We’ve been busy lately, but I’m sure you already know that.” They laughed uneasily. “The Holy One is coming soon. We hate to admit that we’re kinda nervous.”

“It’s okay. It’s normal to be anxious about that sort of thing.” 

They nodded. “You’re so good, Moralist. We almost feel like we don’t deserve you…”

Moralist shook his head and motioned for them to sit on the sofa next to him. They complied, sitting down with a heavy sigh. Communalism leaned against him, he brushed his fingers through their hair, and soon enough they were asleep. They were right where he wanted them, and yet… they were so warm against his fingers and the knife was burning a hole in his pocket. 

What was he thinking?

He couldn’t kill them. Even if Communalism has perverted the ideals he holds dearly, can’t betray himself like this. Who would he be without his morals? Would he be anyone? Who is he without them? 

Who would he be without Communalism?

He got up, careful not to wake them, and drifted into the kitchen. The knife went back where it belonged and so did he:

Next to them.

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written these two before, i hope i did okay.  
> i don't normally write things like this either, so please comment if you liked this. i'm kind of bad at responding but i really appreciate them ^^
> 
> also, please tell me if i messed up Communalism's pronouns. i was a little tired when i wrote this.


End file.
